


Eyes On You

by Polyworth (Jellibeebee)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Founders Era, Gen, Izuna is underappreciated, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Uchiha Izuna Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-02-07 20:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12849324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jellibeebee/pseuds/Polyworth
Summary: The moon might be a heavenly body, but it only shines in absence of the sun.or,Izuna finds his place in Konoha, but not where he expects it.





	1. here I am, here we are

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the first multi-chapter fic I've written in 6 years.
> 
> This is the spiritual successor of my other fic, The Moon is a Crescent. You don't need to have read that before this one, though.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/28/18: Hey guys! I just wanted to let you know I'm going back over the chapters and doing some editing before I put the final chapter up. I've been meaning to do this for a while and just finally got around to it. 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and readership!!  
> \--Bee

Late afternoon sunlight streams in from the Archive's tall windows, filling the dusty air with warm golden light. The lone figure of one Uchiha Izuna sits at a large table in an otherwise sparsely decorated store room, squinting as he tries to decipher an old Hyuuga genealogical record's tediously small print. Even with the discreet reading glasses perched low on his nose, some of the characters are so damned microscopic and worn with age that they're impossible to read.

Izuna heaves a sigh, marks down in his notes that the next sentence is missing a subject and writes his best guess as to what it might be. He leans back in his seat until his back cracks, and slumps against the low backed chair. Izuna blows a chunk of his bangs out of his face, eyes wandering toward the sunny window and the afternoon he’s missing out on. This would be easier if Tobirama were here, but he's been consumed by a personal project for the past week. Izuna idly twirls his damp brush between two fingers, careful not to drip any ink on his coat. What was Tobirama’s current fixation again? Something to do with clones this time. Longer lasting clones, more solid, with more complex chakra matrices and… Whatever. What matters is that Tobirama is having fun--or as close to fun as that man gets--doing something else while he’s stuck working his day away. The particulars don’t really matter.

Izuna groans, wishing  _ he _ could just drop all of their Hokage-Appointed-Very-Important-To-The-Village's-Future work and spend weeks at a time working on some jutsu that's going to wind up in the Forbidden scrolls. It's not that he begrudges Tobirama his life's passion --which is to say, creating jutsu with absolutely horrifying drawbacks that no normal or sane person would ever want to use in combat-- it's just that... Well. Izuna's just a little bitter over always being the one left to pick up the slack is all. Especially when it’s doing work for something he never asked for and never wanted. But, well.

More of his hair falls back onto his face as he tilts his head down to glare at the record he's attempting to copy and reorganize, feeling a stress headache beginning to build behind his eyes. The only good thing about all of this is that he knows Tobirama will eventually come around and ask Izuna his opinion, have him look over his plans and use his unique perspective (and of course doujutsu) to critique and better Tobirama's project. It’s perhaps a petty condolence, but at this point Izuna will take what he can get, and if that just so happens to be him feeling superior to that man, well, then that’s just how it has to be. The inevitability of that sets a smug little smile on Izuna's face, as well as giving him the impetus to call it quits for today. He’s worked long enough. Time to go home and listen to Madara either bitch about some foreign dignitary or subtly gush about Hashirama’s entire being. Either or.

The Archives don't complain when Izuna gingerly rolls up the Hyuuga scroll and deposits it back into the  _ In-Progress _ bin--which is noticeably more full than the  _ Completed _ bin, but not so full as the  _ To-Do  _ bin--but that's probably because as it is, the Archives are mostly just a bunch of half-full shelves crowded into an old storage building with three beat up desks pushed together in the middle to make a work table large enough for two. There's boxes of scrolls that reach from the hard packed dirt floor to the cobwebbed ceiling, the air of the place deeply infused with the scent of old paper and fresh ink.

Izuna surveys what he and Tobirama have been working on for the better part of five years and lets himself feel just the least bit accomplished. He wasn't sure about this whole project when Hashirama proposed they work together--he had, in fact, spent several hours after that particular meeting ranting to his brother that if he had to sit alone in the same room with Senju Tobirama for more than ten minutes at a time he'd burn their matchstick village down then and there--but it'd turned out better than expected. Tobirama is methodical and clever, and Izuna is organized and innovative-- they work well together. Somehow.

Needless to say, spending five years working closely together on a project that quickly became a larger task than intended has fostered something like friendship between the two once bitter rivals. Izuna smiles to himself and shakes his head, making his way to the door. He never thought he'd end up thinking fondly of that man, but here he is, looking over the fruits of their combined labor with something full and warm unfolding in his heart. He quickly makes to quash that feeling--that's something dangerous, something he's not sure he'll ever be able to fully give himself over to. He's not his brother, full of passion and inexplicably unafraid of the consequences those sorts of things bring. Izuna is the careful one, the one who plans and plots and makes designs-- it's better to leave impossible things like that to Madara.

Izuna looks once more over the Archives he’s worked so hard on, pushing away hard at the warmth in his heart, while he locks the doors behind him.

It's easy to ignore those thoughts once he starts on the familiar path home--and isn't that funny, thinking of any part of this ridiculous, miraculous village as his "home"? If anyone had told him five years ago that he'd think of any place that bordered so close to the Senju as home, he'd have promptly lit them on fire and called Madara over to watch and laugh. The thought lingers a moment, and he briefly wonders if his tendency to resort to burning his problems to the ground should merit some kind of concern.

Hmm, probably not. He’s an Uchiha, after all. Fire in the blood, and all that.

Either way he’s found himself on the now well-known path towards the Uchiha district, passing by civilians and shinobi from more clans than Izuna ever thought would agree to join Hashirama and Madara’s half-cocked, under-baked scheme of a village. Some stop and wave, others take one look at him and quickly avert their eyes. Those people are his favorites: the people who still think that an Uchiha can curse you with a glance or can make you infertile if your gaze lingers too long. Madara gets after him for that, as if he should feel ashamed for feeding into that sort of thing. Unfortunately for him, Izuna is of the opinion that if someone is stupid enough to believe a superstition like that then they deserve to have at least a  _ little _ fear put into them.

Izuna flashes his sharingan at one such superstitious fool, watching the older man--a senju civilian, Izuna realizes belatedly-- turn sheet white and nearly run into a wall in his haste to escape Izuna's sight. Izuna muffles a laugh against his fist, shaking his head at the display. Turns out you can take the clans out of the war, but not the fear of war out of the clans.

The crowds of people thin the closer he comes to the Uchiha compound, weeding out the strangers until all that’s left in the sea of faces are familiar ones--people he has known all his life, people he trusts, people he  _ loves _ .

He feels himself instantly relax the moment his feet cross over the paving stones that mark the entrance to the Uchiha district, subconsciously comforted by the hundreds of familiar chakra signatures and high collared coats.

Izuna greets almost every clan member he comes across with a warm smile, from the youngest cousin to the oldest granny. He loves his people, and he knows all too well how much they love him back. It was for love of him (or, a dark little voice whispers in the back of his mind, fear of what Madara might do otherwise) that the clan unanimously accepted the initial cease-fire with the Senju so Hashirama could heal Izuna of his fatal wound. The scar that day left on his side throbs with the memory, as if to remind him to be more grateful.

The warm greetings Izuna receives back from his clansmen makes the scar’s complaining more bearable on the long walk to the main branch home.

The house is lit from within when he reaches it, which either means his brother is home or one of their more brave civilian members decided to let themself in to clean or cook--or both if Izuna is lucky. The building is beautifully built, the foundation supplied by their very own Shodaime Hokage and the rest of the construction completed by civilian Uchiha carpenters. It even has a garden out back. It's gorgeous and far more than anything Izuna was used to living in growing up. Father would be proud, Izuna likes to think. Or Father would be proud, perhaps, if one removed the house from its entire context of being the byproduct of their peace treaty and permanent alliance with their sworn enemies.

"I'm home!" Izuna calls out, taking off his sandals and replacing them with the comfortable house slippers that Madara gave him for his last birthday.

"Welcome back," calls Madara's voice from the kitchen, and Izuna's stomach twists briefly in anxiety. He loves and admires his older brother. Madara is a genius in the shinobi arts, a master without equal apart from a so-called god amongst them, but... he's just never been any good at cooking. Izuna sends a quick prayer to their ancestors that Madara's simply heating something up that one of their cousins dropped off earlier.

"Hey, aniki, remember how you promised me you wouldn't try cooking without guidance or a recipe after last time?" Izuna rounds the corner tentatively, only to come face to face with Madara wielding a wooden spoon like he's debating throwing it clean through Izuna's forehead. Very reminiscent of their mother and her formidable skills with similar weapons. The kitchen backdrop doesn’t help, all exposed dark wood beams and soft white walls. The sound of the fire within the stove paired with the bubbling of cooking things…

"Listen," says Madara, managing to look affronted while trying to hide his amusement-- which he’s doing poorly, at that. "That was one time--and Hikaku didn't even end up with food poisoning. The fact that he threw up was because he's allergic to green onions and had  _ nothing _ to do with my cooking, so don't even start, little brother." The spoon is set aside in favor of Madara catching Izuna by the collar and yanking him into a quick but affectionate hug.

Izuna laughs and pushes Madara away in favor of going over to the stove top where a pot of…something hopefully innocuous sits steaming merrily away. "That smells too good to be something you made anyway--nothing's burnt."

Madara scoffs and cuffs him lightly on the shoulder, hardly more than a gentle tap considering the man it came from. Izuna just snickers harder while Madara’s scowl deepens.

“Wrinkles,” tuts Izuna, dodging a more serious strike aimed at his head in retaliation.

"You're such a brat, Izuna.” Madara huffs, running an agitated hand through his messy bangs--like a preening bird fixing his ruffled feathers. “Luckily for me, I don't have time to sit around and be insulted ad infinitum." Madara flicks Izuna's cheek in petty vengeance before gesturing over at the travel pack Izuna had missed on his way in, a smear of carefully maintained dark canvas in the corner of their brightly lit kitchen. "Hashirama's sending me on an emergency S-rank. I just finished packing up."

Izuna raises an eyebrow in interest and resolutely ignores the pang of anxiety that rises up in his throat. Hashirama only personally sends Madara on away missions when the man wishes he could go himself, so it’s either something very important or very dangerous--or both.

"Top secret?" He wonders, pulling a bowl down from the dark wood cabinets and pouring himself some of whatever is in the pot—mushroom soup, how interesting--which someone definitely dropped off for them. His question was rhetorical, but Madara hums an acknowledgment regardless.

Then he goes and fixes Izuna with a look that's mostly apologetic, but with a heavy dose of guilt and a decent shot of worry to balance it all out. It would be a funny expression to see on Uchiha Madara's face, he thinks, if he didn't see this same look at least four or five times a day, depending on how things play out. Madara opens his mouth and Izuna can already tell he's not going to like what’s about to come out of it.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone for, so I might miss the Clan Meet this week. I know you can handle it, but if something comes up that's too much, you can always postpone--"

Izuna waves a hand to cut him off, swallowing a spoonful of soup at the same time because he's excellent at multitasking. "I've led more than a few Clan Meets without you, aniki. I can't foresee something happening that might make me want to start delaying things now." Perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration, as Izuna has only led one and a half clan meetings without Madara present, but Izuna is a grown adult who doesn’t need his big brother to hold his hand through everything.

Madara's lips thin as if he’s going to argue, but some emotion that's a cross between self-reproach and regret crosses his face, and his one visible eyebrow goes up in concern instead. "I know that you’re more than capable. I just want you to know that I wouldn’t think anything of it."

It's Izuna's turn to hum an agreement, choosing to focus on his soup instead of getting angry at Madara for being Madara--that is, attempting to coddle him in an entirely unnecessary way. He loves his brother dearly and knows Madara only ever means well, which is why Izuna almost always manages to bite his tongue in times like these. He'd feel absolutely horrible for snapping at Madara anyway, since his big brother never fights back. It's like kicking an overly devoted dog--which is an absolutely terrible metaphor to describe Uchiha Madara of all people, but, well.

Izuna doesn't respond until all the fight and fire that had gathered up in his core dissipates. Counting to ten helps, he’s found. Izuna sighs, setting his food aside a moment to look at Madara with a fond sort of exasperation."I know you wouldn't. But have some faith, you know? The clan will still be here when you get back from your super special secret s-rank."

Madara relents with that, leaning forward and ruffling Izuna's artfully messy bangs. Which of course ruins their state of perfectly arranged disarray, but Izuna loves Madara, so he doesn’t consider cutting his hands off for his otherwise unforgivable transgression.

"Hush, you make me sound like some ulcerated granny," Madara says, fondness softening the deep stress lines under and around his visible eye.

"Well, if the sandal fits....." Izuna grins and ducks his head to avoid Madara's fist, snickering into his soup bowl.

"Brat. Who even raised you to be such a brat?" Madara tuts, tugging Izuna's head up by his ponytail, earning him an indignant squawk for his troubles. "Certainly not father and certainly not  _ me,  _ you little terror. " He continues pulling until Izuna's bent backwards enough for his spine to start protesting.

"Certainly not," Izuna agrees, reaching blindly behind him to try and dislodge Madara's hand from his hair. "Anyway, don't you have a mission to go on, aniki? My dear, beloved, wonderful, amazing, admirable, honorable…"

"Oh, shut up." The string of praises gets a laugh out of Madara, who lets go of Izuna's hair with a huff and a put upon smile. "I love you, Izuna," he says while he goes to gather up his pack.

Izuna rises to catch Madara in a brief parting hug--one hand reaching behind hair and collar to cup the nape of Madara’s neck.  _ I will protect your back, _ the traditional Uchiha gesture says.  _ I love you,  _ is what it means.

"Don't take too long now. Hashirama-san starts to get more melancholy than normal when you're gone too long."

Madara rolls his eyes and kisses Izuna's forehead, and then, just like that, he's gone.

_ Show off, _ Izuna thinks, rolling his eyes at his brother's dramatic exit. He didn't need to shunshin out of the kitchen when the front door is hardly ten steps away.

Izuna sighs and looks over at his rapidly cooling soup, resigning himself to picking up Madara's workload as well.

It could be worse, he reasons. It could be a permanent transition to being clan head--but that thought doesn’t bear thinking about. Madara will come home in a few day’s time, just as he always has.

Later, once Izuna’s eaten and cleaned up the kitchen in thanks to whoever it was that brought them food that night, he sits on the back veranda alone. There's an untouched cup of sake to his left and an unlit lantern to his right--both things he'd brought for the sheer aesthetic of the evening, but the longer he sits, the less he feels like indulging. Izuna leans back on his hands and looks over the garden, trying his best to pick out the different flowers that have started to close for the evening with both the waning light and his gradually failing eyesight making it a challenge.

The sun begins setting over the horizon, a dazzling display of fire against the deep blue velvet of the encroaching night. The moon is a milk pale crescent on the other side of the sky, nearly transparent compared to the sunset's magnificent and evocative show.

Izuna breathes in the crisp autumn air and feels a deep sense of empathy somehow.

  
  



	2. rainfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The daily life of one Uchiha Izuna, ft. friends and family, minus Madara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for taking so long on this chapter! A lot of life things happened all at once. Thank you all so much for your patience and interest in Eyes on You!

"And really, Izuna-sama, you have to agree your honorable elder brother should at least be considering marriage by now. Why, Kikue-chan is only a few years younger than him--- you know Kikue-chan, don't you Izuna-sama?"

 

A drop of cold, miserable water drips down onto Izuna's nose from the bleak morning sky, his best smile beginning to strain. It's been drizzling all morning, and Izuna has been out in it since first light. Other clans joke that the Uchiha are all insular gossips, but they really don't know the half of it. Another drop lands on his cheek, just under his eye. Then another, near his temple. Izuna sighs and attempts to step further under his “Aunt” Iko’s eaves.

Normally Izuna would be all for this sort of thing (listening to gossip, that is, and perhaps stirring the pot a bit more than need be), but it's nearly mid-morning and he's only made his way through most of the clan elders. Realistically, he knows he's making decent time, but there's still  _so much_  clan to get through… And being that they’re all Uchiha, every single one of them has a long winded list of complaints built up from last week’s meeting.

This is his duty, he halfheartedly reminds himself. Madara has to do this every week--how, in the name of every ancestor, he does not know--but Madara is away on his special mission for his more-or-less lover, so it's Izuna's  _duty_  to listen and smile and politely pretend that all of his aunties’ and uncles’ and cousins’ "good natured concerns" about his and his brother's lives are valid and personally matter to him.

 

Aunt Iko's staring reminds Izuna he's supposed to be an active part in this conversation. He clears his throat and fixes his smile back into place, a perfect mask of indulgent politeness.

"Aah, yes, I know Kikue-san. She's Kirihito-kun's older sister, I've met her more than once." His auntie nods, tucks a gray strand of hair behind her ear--huffing all the while at his surprising lack of gossip mongering. Of course he remembers Kikue--she walked in on him and her brother on more than one occasion. Ah, yes, Kirihito... Too bad he's engaged, he always had such a pretty face, not to mention a decently sized--

"...Well, at any rate, that's what I would like addressed at the clan meet. It would be a shame if your cousin had to bear that sort of responsibility all on her own, you know." Aunt Iko tuts at him as if she can read his thoughts, raising one thin, knowing eyebrow while he quickly jots down a note on his steadily growing list of Clan Meet related…..”concerns”.  

"Yes, of course Auntie. Thank you for your contribution." Izuna smiles and bows before taking his leave of her doorway, quickly escaping into the shadowed alley between her home and the next--hiding from the rain and his clan both. As soon as he's sure he's out of earshot he heaves a sigh of relief before looking at his notes.

 

__‘Madara-sama shouldn’t be spending so much time with that Senju man, even if he is our leader.’_ _

__‘You both should be married with children by now, you’re growing far too old to be unwed!’_ _

__‘The Inuzuka’s dogs have been harrying our cats, and they complained when we shooed them off. Certainly we don’t need to go to the inter-clan council for this sort of thing?’_ _

__‘Ameyo-chan took an outsider for her lover, and they’re not even getting married! This is outrageous, they don’t even have a clan, just some no good first generation upstart…’_ _

 

Izuna brings his notes to his face and groans into them, wishing that his clan could just submit concerns for their meetings like nearly every other clan seems to.  _ _"It's tradition,"__  Izuna can almost hear his father's voice now, monotonous and reprimanding.  _ _"This is how it is done. It matters not how any other clan might conduct their business."__

Izuna groans a little harder, feeling some of the less than dry ink smear onto his rain damp cheek. There’s a headache just waiting to bloom behind his eyes, which, actually, might explain why Madara is so wrinkly and irritated all of the time. If he’s had to deal with this sort of thing since becoming clan head, week after week… It’s a miracle he doesn’t look twice his age. Izuna can already start to feel stress lines starting, which is intolerable honestly.

 

"Izu-chan, is that you hiding in the alley?"

Izuna cracks his head against the side of Aunt Iko's house with a start, giving himself minor whiplash trying to look and see who's found him now. ’ _ _Please don’t be an elder!’__

 

"Aren't you supposed to be a high caliber shinobi, little cousin? Don't tell me I startled you." Izuna smiles--prays, desperately, that it doesn't look as horrified and embarrassed as he feels--and steps away from the wall. He’s not sure he should feel as relieved as he does, all things considered.

"I was simply lost in my thoughts, cousin. Going over our esteemed elder's requests for the Clan Meet." He waves the clipboard vaguely for his paternal first cousin to see, to which she only hums--giving him look which when paired with her crossed arms tells him she knows exactly what he was doing in the alleyway.

Uzume is short the way Izuna and Madara’s mother was, built with a heavier frame and a sturdy demeanor about her. Although their relation is through Uzume’s mother being their Father’s sister, he can’t help but wonder if she reminds Madara of Mother.

 

"Of course.” She adjusts her umbrella against her shoulder, not a single damp hair on her head. Izuna wonders if it’s by nature that civilian Uchiha are simply better prepared than shinobi are. “Well, at any rate I have a message for you: Tobirama-sama asked Touka-san who asked me to tell you your presence is requested at the archives. Apparently, your boyfriend is worried since you weren't there waiting for his arrival this morning." Izuna scoffs at the smirk Uzume gives him, smug like a cat who's caught herself a particularly delicious canary.

"You're horrible, nee-san. We both know I couldn't date Tobirama-- between you and Touka-san and Madara and Hokage-sama... Well, wouldn't that just be a complicated mess?" Izuna touches his cheek with one hand, still smiling while the ink there sticks to his fingers.

"But thank you for the message. I'll be sure to find him once I finish with my duties for today."

 

"Speaking of those," Uzume says, an uncharacteristic look of concern crossing her face, her crossed arms unfolding, one hand resting on her hip. "I'm not very busy with the forge today, you know. I could take some of the branch families concerns down for you..?"

Izuna affectionately hip checks his way past her, to which he receives a solid shove into the nearest wall--being a weapon smith certainly hasn’t made her weak. He ignores the bitter, twisting feeling in his stomach and smiles through it.

"I couldn't possibly ask you to do something like that for me--I'm sure your smithy is missing you, so I won't keep you! Please send my regards to your honorable father."

 

"You're a little brat, Uchiha Izuna. One of these days I'm going to put you into the forge just to see how a block of shit burns!" Izuna laughs at Uzume's threat--she's been sayings she'll smelt him down into various useless objects since childhood--and makes a hasty retreat into the rain. 

He wonders as he knocks on his next clan member's door if Uzume ever offers to help Madara, but doesn't dwell too long on the thought.

 

He already knows the answer.

 

* * *

  

Late afternoon finds Izuna in the archives, alone again with the dust motes and dreary gray light, bitter as the tea he makes when Madara isn’t home to brew a better pot.

He shouldn’t be bitter about this, realistically speaking. He couldn’t come when Tobirama called--for one, he is neither a servant nor a dog, and for two, he still had  _ _so many__  more clan members to deal with--so why should Izuna expect Tobirama to be waiting for him when he did manage to pull himself away?

He sighs and eyes the now larger stack of unread scrolls on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. Is this his punishment for making fun of Madara since birth? Has it all just been accumulating, waiting for the perfect moment in his life to torment him? It must be, because Izuna’s luck is rarely so poor… Although recently, it’s been worse than usual. Being stuck with running the Clan Meet, becoming more or less the sole archivist for upwards of ten clans that go back centuries, having to live in close proximity to many of the clans who caused the slaughter of his clansmen and for Madara’s sake, having to pretend to be  _ _alright__ with that…..

 

And, alright, perhaps that last injury has certainly grown less and less painful as the years have passed, but that doesn’t mean Izuna’s still very fond of it all. He might have somehow become friends with Tobirama, his long standing rival from their sworn enemy clan… But that’s different, because he’s  _S_ _ _enju Tobirama, his long standing rival from their sown enemy clan.__  They already had history together, and really, Madara and Hashirama are prime examples of how that sort of thing can work out.

Izuna holds open the bag on his hip while he gingerly tries to load the scrolls he’d been working on into it. All he can hope is that the scrolls are better bound than they appear--that, and that he bag he picked is indeed the waterproof one. He can’t even begin to imagine the hell he’ll catch if he causes water damage to the Hyuuga’s precious archival histories. 

Stuffy angry old Byakugan users be damned, Izuna tucks the bag underneath his arm and prepares himself to haul ass back to the compound, opening the door to the archives with one hand, chakra already gathered in his feet in order to absolutely take the fuck off--

 

Instead, he runs face first into someone’s chest. Someone who puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Someone wearing black with dust and ink smears on it like he’s been wearing it intermittently for the past few days.

 So, Senju Tobirama pulls him back just enough to look Izuna in the face, expression caught somewhere between bewildered and an annoyed cat. 

 

“I was looking for you.” He says, tone even but a touch confused. Izuna chokes on a laugh, snorting unattractively at him. Which makes Tobirama’s face sour into a more typical scowl, which just amuses Izuna more. It’s a horrendous cycle, really, but neither of them try very hard to break it.

“I heard, I was busy with clan business. I hope it wasn’t pressing.” Izuna notes, to his embarrassment, that it doesn’t seem to be raining now.

 

Well.

 

“Mm, no. Are you busy now?” Tobirama tilts his head just so, toward Izuna, expression clear but eyebrows lifted in such a way to indicate that he’s listening, interested, pale red eyes intent but not demanding. 

Izuna’s heart does something that he soundly ignores, shifting the bag of scrolls against his hip and weighing his options. He technically isn’t busy, no, but he  _ _does__ have a lot of work to do, and…

“I need your opinion on chakra matrices, if you aren’t. The technique I’m working on requires a lot of complex yang chakra infusion in relation to clones.” Possibly the longest sentence Izuna has gotten out of him for the past week. Admittedly, it’s already something he’s told to Izuna, which is…

 

Hm, should it be cute or annoying? He doesn’t dwell on it.

 

A smirk curls on Izuna’s lips, he reaches out and pats Tobirama’s arm. “So you’ve said. But if you hit a wall, I’m sure I can spare some time to help you out, Tobirama.”

 

The other man scoffs and Izuna laughs, but they both make their way toward the Senju compound regardless in companionable silence. No doubt Tobirama wants Izuna’s sharingan to help dissect the flaws in his jutsu, or simply to use him as a listening ear so he can catch his mistakes out loud. 

Either way, the prospect has something warm and pleased unfurling against Izuna’s sternum. Something like pride but softer, something like satisfaction but less smug. It brings heat to the back of Izuna’s neck--easily hidden by his standard high collared cloak.

They settle into Tobirama’s study, usually kept impossibly clean, now littered with scattered paper, unfurled scrolls and opened books. Tobirama wastes little time with catching him up on how the technique has progressed so far, an impressive amount considering he’s only been at this a week.

 

“Shadow clones,” Tobirama says, clearing a space on the floor between himself and Izuna. “But more specifically, an overwhelming amount of them. Solid reproductions of the user by the hundreds.”

Izuna hums low, thoughtful. “A one man army. How horrifying in the right shinobi’s hands.” His sharingan is already on, the world tinted a vague red, everything in perfect, crystalline focus.

Tobirama doesn’t look at him, he’s reading a sheet of notes written in his careful, neat hand. Izuna memorizes them, but it’s upside--forever seared into his memory like that.

 

“Hm. Either way, the issue I’ve been finding with it is…”

Izuna listens, chin on his hand and smiling indulgently. He doesn’t really need his eyes for this, but a part of him wants to remember this moment forever--just the two of them, just like this. The setting sun painting the room in sharp reliefs of blue shadow and golden light, the crease between Tobirama’s white brows, the way his hands gesticulate as he explains-- using Izuna as a soundboard to catch his mistakes.

An hour passes, two more. A Senju civilian comes by and leaves food for the two of them, they eat. Izuna gives his eyes a break while Tobirama falls silent, inhaling his food like it’s the first thing he’s had all day--and knowing him, it likely is.

Hashirama makes a brief appearance sometime well after nightfall, worn but cheery when he greets Izuna and Tobirama before heading off to his own room, most likely to crash into sleep from the way Tobirama shoos him off.

 

“...So you’re saying a delayed release might actually… Hm.” Tobirama mumbles, the sky is dark and the room is lit by hazy yellow gas lights. Izuna nods, sure of himself.

“Like the Phoenix Flower, yes. It also creates multiples and allows for separate control of each, which, with a little tweaking….” Izuna waves a hand vaguely, Tobirama nods back, pulling a mostly blank sheet of paper towards him. Izuna hands him a pen and inkwell.

 

The room is quiet except for the scratch of pen against paper and their breathing. Izuna’s eyes ache from recording so much, idly he rubs underneath one to assuage the pain.

 

“Are you staying the night?” Tobirama voice breaks the near silence, and Izuna’s eyebrows nearly find his hairline.

“Am I--what?”  _Eloquent as ever,_  Izuna curses himself. Tobirama doesn’t look up from what he’s doing, entirely fixated on the task at hand now.

“Staying the night. It’s late.”

 

Izuna looks out the window, not able to find the crescent slip of the current moon in the sky at all. Ah. When had that happened? How had so much time passed without his noticing? Embarrassment creeps up hot and uncomfortable along his neck, curling behind his ears and around to his cheeks. Tobirama doesn’t see it because he doesn’t look up, and Izuna is fleetingly grateful for his distraction.

“No-- I should have left hours ago,” Izuna stands up, joints popping from disuses as he scrambles to find his bag. “I lost track of time. I’ll see you… Tomorrow? We have a meeting with your brother.” Tobirama grunts in response, and Izuna’s stomach twists a little--all of Tobirama’s attention is back on his project. He probably didn’t hear Izuna at all. A tight little frown finds his mouth, pulls at it unpleasantly.

 

“Good night, Senju.”

 

Tobirama doesn’t reply.

 

Later, Izuna slips into his dark, empty home and settles in at his own desk, eyes burning as he stares down at the stack of notes Madara left him for the Clan Meet at the end of the week, stares down at his own complied list of complaints, stares down at the empty papers that are supposed to contain the list of subjects he’ll actually discuss when he leads the meet.

He curses quietly and gets to work, the scrolls by the archive left forgotten at the door.


	3. one thing after another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitter? Who's Bitter? Izuna isn't bitter, what fic are you reading?

_Izuna runs through a field of tall grass, feeling slow and clumsy without the use of his chakra. Or maybe it’s his legs that are shorter, weaker, unable to keep an adult pace. He can see Madara’s back up ahead, hear his teasing laughter._

_‘Hurry up, Izuna! You’ll never catch up to us like that!’ Madara’s face is too far away to see, and the tears that prick Izuna’s eyes don’t help in the matter._

_‘Aniki, wait for me! I’m going as fast as I can!’ He cries out, angry with Madara for making fun of him. Angry with being too little, always too little too slow too young-- little brother Izuna, baby brother Izuna, tagging along behind Madara’s coattails._

_He stumbles on something, a rock or a high curling root and the ground rushes up to get closely acquainted with his face. The world turns in a sickening way, earth and sky going from day to night as he falls, the moon wanes and waxes, faster and faster until tears run down Izuna’s face. There’s some one sobbing, they’re screaming, fingers clawing at dry earth and raging against the shift of time-- demanding back what’s theirs, what you took, what you took and cannot **give back, give him back--**_

_The moon spins as it cycles through its phases, red creeping in like blood on the surface of a puddle-- it fills Izuna with dread, the moon’s face marred with black shifting symbols, red as death, red as a bleeding heart-- red as a sharingan eye---_

Izuna’s eyes crack open slowly, greeted with the horizontal view of his desk and accompanied by the immediate realization that his neck--and thus, his entire spine--is bent at a horribly uncomfortable angle.

Sitting up feels like a punishment he didn’t earn, or at least one he didn’t do anything _interesting_ to earn. There’s a loose leaf of paper stuck to his cheek, and a cursory glance over the rest of himself reveals that both his hands and the front of his tunic are smeared with dried ink. Izuna doesn’t even have the energy to be properly annoyed--his eyes ache from the night before, his back hurts, he barely remembers finishing all the work he’d meant to do last night…

Bitterness wells up in Izuna’s throat at the reminder, hot and tight.

 _I’m going to die like this._ The venom in the thought doesn’t startle him as much as it should, doesn’t make him feel as guilty as it should. _This is what it means to be a shinobi of Konoha._

Izuna sighs and rubs his eyes with his ink stained hands, trying to dispel the lingering resentment that’s settled against his lungs, pressed up against his rib cage. He’s probably just hungry-- uncomfortable from sleeping at his desk, cold from the early fall chill in the air.

 _This is fine,_ Izuna tells himself, dragging himself to his feet to greet the morning with his best foot forward. _Madara’s dream is worth this much._

A knock sounds from the front door, drawing Izuna away from thoughts and to the entrance hall. A civilian clan member bows when he answers, offering him breakfast while subtly probing for gossip-- Izuna wasn’t home until late last night, and he was seen talking to Senju Tobirama, exactly what kind of conversation were they having so late into the night?-- which is easy enough to brush aside, no matter how it might sting.

A project, he tells them. Just a pet project of the Senju’s that he wanted Izuna’s invaluable assistance on. Nothing more and nothing less.

They’re not satisfied with that for obvious reasons, but Izuna thanks them for the food and shuts the door anyway. From what he can see of the sun, it’s a beautiful morning in Konohagakure, not a single cloud hangs over the land of fire, leaving the sun to burn cheerfully down on them.

Izuna stuffs food into his mouth and looks over at his desk, now a mess of paper and smears of ink, and prays to whatever ancestor is listening that none of the spilled ink got onto his notes for the clan meet. If he has to do them over again--and this time by memory--he will kill something. Someone. Maybe Tobirama, he’d put up a good fight at least.

But that would upset Hashirama, which would upset Madara, and this whole village escapade would be all for nothing and honestly, what kind of horrible brother would he be if he ruined Madara’s dreams like that?

Friend-killer isn’t really a title Izuna’s looking to earn, anyway. It doesn’t quite have the same ring as the things they call Madara: Madara the Reaper, Army killer Madara, Madara of the mangekyou eye… Even Tobirama gets called the Wolf of Konoha for the affiliation with the Hatake wolves on his mother’s side… Which certainly isn’t as impressive as God of Shinobi Hashirama, who surpasses all of them effortlessly…

And then there’s Izuna, Madara’s little brother.

Izuna snorts around a mouthful of rice, rolls his eyes. _That’s what they’ll write for my epitaph,_ a sardonic smile curling on his lips. _Uchiha Izuna, son of Uchiha Tajima and Uchiha Yume, child of the twentieth generation born of Lord Indra. Known and Feared throughout the elemental countries as Uchiha Madara’s Little Brother._

He wanders back over to his desk and picks up one of the more ink stained pages, largely blank but for where the ink marks it black. Izuna sighs and shuffles through a few more papers, assessing the damage, when something occurs to him.

He has a meeting this morning with Hashirama.

He has a meeting this morning with Hashirama, most likely… right now.

Izuna shoves as much food as possible into his mouth before running off to the washroom to make himself presentable-- a larger feat than normal, considering the ink that covers most of the front of him. His face and hair are highest priority, and not for the first time is he grateful for the way his hair is naturally a bit disheveled.

He changes into a new tunic as quickly as he can. By the time Izuna is out the door his hands are still littered with pale gray blotches, but his face is clean and his hair is tied back properly, which is all he can really ask for at this point.

 _What was this meeting about, again?_ Izuna wracks his brain trying to remember as he takes to the rooftops, rushing toward the looming Hokage tower. Madara was supposed to be there, and Tobirama, so perhaps… Clan relations? Updates on the archive project? He supposes it doesn’t really matter if he’s late-- which by the way the sun is creeping decidedly toward _late_ morning, he certainly is.

 

Normally it’s Tobirama who sits at the desk outside of Hashirama’s office, but today it’s Senju Touka, the intimidating woman who happens to be managing relationships with both Izuna’s cousin _and_ Uzumaki Mito. Truly a legend, he commends her for that.

“Touka-san.” He greets her with a polite nod, which he receives back, mixed with an amused smile.

“You’re late, but he hasn’t noticed.” She says, her voice softer than one might assume from her sharp appearance. Touka makes a shooing gesture toward the door, eyes warm with good natured teasing. “Go on. It’s just the two of you today, anyway.”

Izuna thanks her but bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making an unpleasant face. Of course Tobirama wouldn’t deign to show up-- what’s a summons from his clan head, from their _Hokage_ , when he has a project to take care of? What else matters then? Certainly it’s fine to leave Izuna to make some sort of report on his own-- it’s one thing for Madara to be sent away on an impromptu mission; that sort of thing can’t be helped. But to simply decide not to show up when your only other pressing matters are personal?

Izuna can feel heat behind his eyes, red swims at the edges of his vision--but it’s just for a moment. He breathes, pushes the anger down, pushes the impulse to activate his sharingan down, smiles more pleasantly. The perfect picture, nothing amiss, nothing to see here.

He fixes a stray hair back into his bangs and enters Hashirama’s office.

 

* * *

 

 

Hashirama would be a far more imposing man, Izuna thinks, if he didn’t hold himself with his shoulders curved in like that. Like he’s aware of how much space he takes up and wants to make room for others, like he’s self conscious about the heavy ambient chakra he puts off--Like a mountain, Madara once said. Like what a mountain’s chakra might feel like, were it more alive than it already was.

As it is, Hashirama sitting at his desk in the Hokage’s office simply looks like someone’s harried father, or perhaps an uncle, who’s been asked to do a task he doesn’t particularly know how to accomplish but can’t bear to let anyone down by saying he’s lost.

Izuna smiles-- as much as there’s still some bad blood between the Uchiha and Senju, he’s always liked Hashirama. Or, at least, he grew to like him after he healed Izuna of that mortal wound, all those years ago.

Hashirama’s friendliness is infections and hard to resist, like a fungus. A pleasant one, but still a foreign growth.

He doesn’t look up when Izuna comes in, so engrossed in the open scroll on his desk that he’s made himself immune to sound and movement. Endearing, but also foolish-- if Izuna had been an enemy…

…Well, if Izuna had been an enemy, he supposes it wouldn’t matter. Not even Madara had managed to kill the man when they were at war, no other opponent of Madara’s could claim the same.

Izuna clears his throat, a more genuine smile crinkling his eyes. “Excuse me, Hokage-sama. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Hashirama doesn’t quite jump, but his shoulders lift up to his ears and his eyes go wide when he looks up-- like a child caught not paying attention to lessons.

“Ah-- Izuna! I’m so sorry-- how…. how long have you been standing there?” He starts to get up to bow, but Izuna waves him off with good humor.

“Not long enough for you to be this sorry about it.” He watches with amusement as Hashirama heaves a sigh of relief, closing the scroll he’d been reading and moving it to the side of the desk.

“So then,” Hashirama says with renewed cheer, dark eyes warm as sun baked earth, “What can I help you with?”

Izuna opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again in a smile of vague disbelief. “…We’re supposed to be having a meeting,” he supplies, approaching Hashirama’s desk while he tries to smother laughter. “Granted, Madara and Tobirama were also meant to be a part of it, but seeing as one is away on a mission and the other is… currently otherwise occupied, it’s just you and I.”

Hashirama looks at him while he processes this, pure panic poorly hidden behind a frozen half open smile and wide, black eyes. “I-- right! Of course,” Hashirama’s laugh is forced and awkward, and when it peters out he coughs into his hand. It’s hard to tell whether he actually remembered the nature and reality of the meeting or if he’s playing it off--but that’s Hashirama for you. Somehow both transparent as glass and obscure as a dark well.

“Right, so… Well, hm.” Hashirama leans back in his chair, hand brought to his chin. Izuna raises an eyebrow but otherwise says nothing, letting his illustrious leader take his time.

 _This man can move mountains,_ Izuna watches Hashirama run a hand through his own hair, obviously thinking hard about whatever it is he wants to say. _This man could kill me in more ways than I would ever have time to conceive of._

Hashirama looks up at him, his face so terribly soft and kind-- gentle. Compassionate.

_This man would cry if I made fun of him. No wonder Madara is so in love._

“Are you sure you’re alright to do this on your own?” Hashirama leans forward on his desk, hands clasped together, elbows resting on the edge of it. “We can postpone the meeting, if you’d like more time--”

“No,” Izuna is quick to cut him off, perhaps a bit too quick with the way Hashirama’s brow raises. “No, thank you Hokage-sama. I will be fine to present on my own.”

Hashirama nods, relenting easily. He’s kind enough not to comment on Izuna’s defensive attitude, for which he’s grateful.

 

It’s easy enough to go over the progress Izuna and Tobirama (but mostly Izuna, as of late) have been making with the archive project. The Hyuuga relented the week before and submitted their clan records, and the Inuzuka are in the process of doing the same. The Sarutobi clan’s history was completed two weeks prior. The Uchiha… are still reticent to have their history and records made public, but Izuna believes he’s made some headway with the clan elders…etc…etc…

Izuna hesitates when he finishes the first half of his report-- he hadn’t exactly been _prepared_ to give any kind of presentation on clan relations. That was Madara’s duty as Clan head, and certainly Izuna is clan second and should therefore be ready at any time to take over Madara’s duties, but…

Izuna bites down on the inside of his lip and tries to think of a way not to embarrass not only himself and Madara but their entire clan. Not that Hashirama would think anything of it, he can already see the placating smile around Hashirama’s eyes, can already hear his warm voice say _‘That’s alright. We can wait until Madara returns home for all this anyway. Less paperwork for me in the end, right?’_ Which isn’t right, because it would be the same amount of paperwork in the end, but.

He’s stalling. Hashirama smiles encouragingly at him over his desk, his hands still clasped loosely on his desk, eyebrows raised in interest. Izuna knows he isn’t meaning to be patronizing, or condescending, and he hates the little part of himself that insinuates that Hashirama doesn’t think of him as a capable clan second, a capable _shinobi_ , that he’s just Madara’s little brother because that’s all that anyone _ever_ sees and why would Hashirama be any different--

 

Something rattles the window frame to Izuna’s right, immediately stealing both of their attention away from the meeting. A hard scrabble of claws on wood and a long, petulant meow sounds from the other side of the glass and Hashirama’s already up and out of his seat.

He barely opens the window before there’s a blur of black and gold in his arms, a purr loud enough to be heard across the room rising up from the cat that’s made her way into the Hokage tower.

“I’m sorry, did we keep you waiting?” Hashirama coos to the cat before depositing the older queen onto his desk, which puts her red and white collar on display and confirms Izuna’s suspicions.

There’s a scroll attached to the collar-- she’s one of Madara’s favorite summons. Her name?

“Ah, it’s Madara-chan.” The tortoiseshell cat named ‘Spotted’ perks her head up at her name, making a sound between a meow and a chirrup in greeting. Izuna laughs and offers a hand for her to rub her head against, which she happily takes to while Hashirama removes the message she was sent to deliver.

He’s quiet while he reads, serious, and Izuna watches his face out of the corner of his eye. Ostensibly he’s just petting his brother’s favorite animal summons, but he can’t help himself from trying to read Hashirama while he reads Madara’s letter. Is his brother alright? Is the mission dangerous? Is he hurt? Unlikely, Madara is strong enough that it shouldn’t even be a worry that crosses Izuna’s mind--but the thought of Madara in danger somewhere, injured, _alone_ …

Hashirama chuckles a little to himself and all the tension drains from Izuna’s body. If he notices the way Izuna’s breathe shakes on his exhale, he doesn’t say anything about it.

He sets the scroll down and Madara-The-Cat flops down and stretches herself over Hashirama’s desk, obviously waiting for a reply and obstructing Hashirama’s ability to do literally anything else in the meantime. Izuna doesn’t bother to smother his laugh.  

“She really does take after him.” He says, and Hashirama sighs, but his amusement leaks through into it.

“Ah, well. I guess we’ll have postpone our meeting after all.” Hashirama sinks back down into his seat, pulling out a scroll and dragging his inkwell closer. Izuna tries to feel something other than relief, and ends up with shame. He should have been better prepared, he shouldn’t be grateful that Madara-the-Cat showed up when she did.

“As you’d like, Hokage-sama.” He gives a short bow and Hashirama makes a bit of a face at him, protesting Izuna’s formality even after all these years.

“Really Izuna, Hashirama is just fine, you don’t have to be so….” Hashirama looks down at the blank scroll thoughtfully, fishing for the right word. “…Distant, I suppose. You know? It’s been years.”

Izuna tilts his chin down until his smile is almost entirely obscured by his collar, eyes narrowed just so--something Madara does, has always done, just before he starts in on teasing.

“Why, I would have thought that with all the disrespect you get around here that you’d be honored that someone would bother with your title at all. My mistake, I’ll be less formal in the future.”

Hashirama sputters a moment before he can form a coherent protest, and instead hangs his head, a near palpable storm cloud forming around his head. “You’re right… I should be thankful that you even try… no one else does at this point…”

Izuna nearly chokes on his laughter, giving Hashirama a quick bow.

“And with that, _Hashirama_ , I’ll leave you to your letter. Give my brother my regards.”

Hashirama mumbles something in reply, his body bowing like a tree smothered in snow until his face is pressed against Madara-the-Cat’s soft belly.

Right as Izuna’s hand touches the door, Hashirama seems to perk up. His emotional rebound time alone would be enough to earn him a legendary title, honestly. “Ah, wait! I meant to ask earlier, but do you want to meet me for drinks later? Tobirama’s been cooped up in his room for too long, so I thought maybe some of us could drag him out tonight?”

Izuna pauses perhaps just a touch too long-- _he’s only asking you because you’re the only person Tobirama seems to talk to besides Mito, not for your company--_ but manages to plaster on a smile at the last second.

“I would love to. What bar?”

 


	4. a night out, a day in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Izuna doesn't get as drunk as he wants to, and Tobirama gets dragged along-- THANKS, Hashirama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Also! Check out http://jelli-art.tumblr.com/post/171531763203/mostly-just-playing-around-with-the-founders-to to see how all the founders look in this fic-- minus Uzume, my favorite Uchiha OC.)

Tobirama, to absolutely no one’s surprise, would not be persuaded to join them for drinks.

“I said _NO_ Anija,” Bites Tobirama’s voice through his study’s door, “I don’t even _like_ alcohol, why would you think I’d want to go drinking when I have better things to be doing?”

Hashirama leans harder against the sliding door, his weight causing it to groan in protest. It’s likely marked with seals from the inside to protect it against such intrusions--that would be so like him.

Izuna rolls his eyes and watches Hashirama push with futile effort, then turns and shares a knowing look with Mito.

“How long have they been doing this?” His tone is mild but wry. Mito hides a huff of laughter behind her sleeve despite neither Senju brother paying them any mind.

“Nearly an hour now.”

“ _Tobirama,”_ Hashirama’s voice is starting to stray into a dangerous territory, sliding from petulant child to reprimanding older brother with an ease that defies logic. “You have not left your room for more than an hour at a time in a _week._ I understand you like your privacy and have your projects, but there is a _line._ ”

The door strains but holds firm. Hashirama looks at it like it’s betrayed him.

“I haven’t even seen you since early last night--have you even bathed? That’s not like you! You love being clean!” The malice in the silence on the other side of the door would kill a lesser man. Needless to say, Hashirama isn’t deterred in the slightest.

“See? You always get like this, and then you start doing things like not showing up for meetings, and--”

“ _Hashirama!_ ” The door shudders like something roughly the size and weight of a chakra control manual has been thrown at it. “ _Enough!_ Leave me be, I’m trying to _concentrate._ ”

Izuna smirks a little and doesn’t bother to hide it from Mito’s clever eyes. _Good_ , he thinks, _rub his nose it in._ Maybe that’s a touch pettier than he needs to be, but if there is anything Izuna hates more than being ignored it’s being forgotten all together.

Hashirama sets shoulders like he’s going to physically break Tobirama’s door down, but Mito gets there first.

“Allow me,” She pats Hashirama’s upper arm with a casual air, stepping up to the offending barrier. “This won’t take long.”

“Mito.” Tobirama sounds level but just barely, a mix of frustration and desperation starting to leak into his tone, overtaking his previous agitation. “Don’t do this, think rationally-- this jutsu will be a tremendous breakthrough, not only on the battlefield but for every day tasks-- you can’t possibly think that going out for a drink is more important than progress?”

Izuna and Hashirama both look to Mito--Hashirama, hopeful; Izuna, delighted.

Mito says nothing as she takes a scroll out of her sleeve, the one with the ink brush hidden inside the center. Then she produces a slip of seal paper and Izuna grins. He knew there was a reason he’s always liked her.

“...Mito?” Tobirama’s voice holds a note of resignation in it, like he’s read her silence and understood she won’t be reasoned with. Either that or he’s just picking up on Hashirama’s chakra, which has grown so excited the tatami mats have started to go green around his feet.

“Hush now, Tobirama. I’m trying to concentrate.” Mito’s grin is possibly more smug than a fox in a hen house, and Hashirama claps his hands in joy, his laughter startling a laugh out of Izuna in turn.

Mito makes approximately four brush strokes before sticking the seal to the door, then, as easy as you please, slides the door open that Hashirama couldn’t force his way through five minutes ago.

If Izuna had thought Tobirama’s study was a mess the night before, it’s a disaster now.

It’s almost miraculous, how Tobirama has managed to somehow spread more books, scrolls, and paper to cover every inch of the floor. There’s little rhyme or reason to it either--stacks of scrolls in one corner, a pile of torn papers in the next. There’s even dirty dishes scattered about the room along with two separate teapots and five different cups with varying degrees of fullness.

Izuna takes a look around and then looks Tobirama dead in the eye, incredulous but impressed. “Amazing. Truly, you’re an unsung talent of our time.”

Tobirama’s jaw tightens as his gaze skips away from Izuna’s, his hair unkempt and eyes swollen with dark crescents underneath that mark a sleepless night. He’s still wearing the same clothes from the night before, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Are you pleased with yourselves?” His voice is nearly as tight as his thin pressed lips. Izuna nearly feels sorry for him, but he’s still annoyed about the day before-- so the sympathy slides right off of him.

Hashirama gingerly attempts to step into the room. It’s like watching a bull attempt to navigate a doll house--or perhaps someone approaching a cornered animal that’s known to bite.

“Tobirama,” His voice is so much more gentle now, less the annoying sibling and more the caring elder brother. “At least come out to eat. Change your clothes, clear your head, get some fresh air.”

Eventually he makes his way to Tobirama, bending slightly at the knee to offer him his hand. Tobirama, for his part, looks at the offered hand like it’s some sort of trap--which, despite Hashirama’s disarming behavior, it could very well be.

“.…Two hours. Nowhere loud. Somewhere by the river.” He says, eyeing Hashirama like he’s going to refuse the terms while slowly, cautiously, placing his pale hand in his brother’s larger one.

Immediately Tobirama is hoisted bodily to his feet like a child picking up a favorite stuffed toy, his limbs limp and unsteady from sitting too long.

“Wonderful! Alright, I’m trusting you to get dressed and meet us out front. If you take too long I’ll come back in and do it myself.” Hashirama claps Tobirama on the shoulder with enough cheerful force to make him jolt forward, although perhaps not as much as an average person might. Izuna suspects Tobirama has built up a tolerance after all these years.

“Get out, Anija.” Is all he says before turning his back to them, already going for the hem of his shirt. Hashirama is much less careful on his way out than in, happily sending papers flying as he slams the door shut on his way out.

“Perfect!” He cries, thoughtlessly grabbing Izuna by the shoulder but having the presence of mind to offer Mito his arm as he drags them both out of the Senju home. “This is going to be great!”

 

* * *

 

Night has fallen by the time the four of them reach the restaurant that Hashirama had in mind, the sun setting quiet and cold over the late horizon. Nearly as cold as the shoulder that Tobirama is giving all of them.

Hashirama does his best to make up for his younger brother’s poor attitude, and Mito plays along admirably-- teasing and prodding and subtly pulling Izuna into the conversation whenever she can. It’s admittedly welcome, but having Tobirama’s icy glare skate over him every few minutes is enough to sour his mood. People call the Uchiha cat like-- but Tobirama is doing a more than impressive rendition of a wet, angry cat while he eats the fish Hashirama ordered for him.

Izuna just needs to get truly, deeply, spectacularly drunk.

He’s only in his first cup by the time Touka and Uzume arrive, and by the looks of his cousin’s ruddy cheeks and bright bleary eyes, the two of them had an early start to the evening.

“Izu-chaaan,” Uzume takes the seat nearest to Izuna, who hastily pours himself another cup of sake. “Look at you, big enough to drink now. When did you have the time to grow up so much?”

Izuna out of the corner of his eye he sees Tobirama visibly shrink into himself at Uzume’s volume. He’s been sulking the entire time, serves him right to suffer Uzume’s drunken soliloquies.

“Cousin.” Izuna raises his cup and drains it, hoping to chase away the inevitable embarrassment that she’s going to inflict upon him with liquid courage.

Hashirama greets Touka with warmth, and she spares Izuna a commiserating if not sympathetic glance. Before Uzume has a chance to start in on him again--his cousin is known to have a sharp tongue and a biting sense of humor sober, she’s an absolute terror when uninhibited-- Mito catches Uzume’s attention.

Izuna sighs in relief and turns his attention to the river that the restaurant over looks, the reflections of the lights dancing on the black, glossy surface. It’s gorgeous--even if Tobirama is being an absolute brat about going out, at least he has the presence of mind to make good aesthetic choices.

Every so often Izuna gets the inclination to try and start a conversation with Tobirama, and receives nothing but mono-symbolic sounds and grunts in reply-- which for an Uchiha could be a whole conversation, admittedly, but not with the people they’re supposed to call friends.

Izuna downs more alcohol but only feels worse for it, despite the good cheer Hashirama spreads throughout the restaurant, despite Touka and Mito’s best efforts to keep Uzume’s drunken rambling from becoming vicious teasing-- it’s pathetic, that it’s all in vain when put up against the way Tobirama keeps… keeps… _ignoring_ him.

About an hour into the evening Tobirama simply gets up and leaves without a word or glance edgewise.

“ _Tobirama,_ ” Hashirama calls, managing to sound both exasperated and desperate at the same time. “You said two hours! It’s barely been one! It’s not _that_ loud inside, come back Tobirama--” And then he’s gone, following his younger brother out into the night.

“They’re not coming back.” Touka says simply over her cup, steam rising and curling up toward her face. She takes a sip and sighs. “There’s no way he’ll convince Tobirama.”

Mito shakes her head and takes another bite of the bar food that Hashirama had ordered earlier. “Such a pity. I suppose it was growing a bit noisy for him, though.”

Izuna feels his hackles raise, and turns to find Uzume’s gaze fixed on him, a knowing, sharp smile on her lips.

“Especially since, well, Izu-chan couldn’t keep his eyes off of him.” She smirks into her cup--who’s allowing her to still drink? Honestly--and Izuna rolls his eyes.

“Hard not to stare when someone makes faces like he does.” He snorts, takes a drink from his own cup.

“Oh, yes, certainly it’s only his _face_ you’re concerned with.”

“Uzume,” Touka says gently, pats her hand to draw her attention. “Perhaps that’s better left alone?”

His cousin looks undeterred though, surprised that Touka would even suggest that. “But why? It’s not taboo-- Izuna’s never been subtle about his interests--and rumor has it he hasn’t been with anyone in more than a _year--_ that’s _ages,_ Touka. _Ages_ . And with us, once we start latching on to one.. or, well, two people,” She pauses to giggle, looking between both of her partners. “Well, it’s all over for them. The whole _world_ changes perspective, and that person for Izuna is--”

“No one.” Izuna stands up from the table a bit faster than he meant to, but he’s not drunk enough for it to matter. Not drunk enough for _this._ “That person is absolutely _no one,_ Uzume.”

She sniffs, unimpressed. “Don’t be so dramatic. You would think Madara’s here.”

Izuna bites the tip of his tongue hard enough to threaten blood, and most certainly _doesn’t_ run away.

He was done with his “great” night out anyway.

It’s not as if Hashirama has ever been able to predict anything-- no one should bank on a bad gambler’s luck.

 

* * *

 

Izuna sleeps fitfully and wakes in a bitter mood. The tea he makes is too weak, the rice sticks to the bottom of the pot. He contemplates throwing the whole thing out into the yard and attempting to melt it, but he’s not Madara, and has a better lid on his temper than his brother. Usually.

Someone stops by and brings him soup while he’s occupied with contemplating how hot he would need to make his fire release to melt a cast iron pot, which improves his morning by a greater degree than he would have ever thought soup would. There’s a note slipped under his door shortly after promising him a free dinner in Uzume’s hand, and Izuna is enough of an adult not to tear it up and burn that, too.

Izuna spends the rest of the morning pouring over his notes for the clan meeting planned for the evening, the time that passes soothing him as the sun travels further through the sky.

By early afternoon Izuna finds the scrolls he’d brought home from the archive, and now with time to spare, decides to set himself to task on them.

His mind wanders while he transcribes the Hyuuga texts to clean, new scrolls-- to the clan meet this evening and how he’ll run it, to how Madara is doing on his mission, to… how Tobirama is coming along with his multi-shadow clone technique. Surprisingly, that last part doesn’t bring as much bitterness as he thought it would. It’s a comfort, he thinks. To be rid of that anger, at least for now.

The day creeps on and finds Izuna on a walk through the village--his village. The village he helped found.

Perhaps it hasn’t been the easiest adjustment for him, for many of them, but they have peace. There are happy children running in the streets without fear of death or harm. There are elderly shinobi and civilians enjoying their lives. There is a hospital, a permanent place for their sick and injured to be healed, to be helped.

There are times Izuna will cross paths with another clan and their steps will be wary, their eyes guarded, and he will remember in that moment that he’s lost family to so many of the clans that make up Konoha-- and he will remember that he has killed their family, too. Even years after the village’s founding there is tension in some places--but on the whole…

It’s beautiful-- Madara’s dream… Even if a poor copy of Hashirama’s face is carved up on the cliff overlooking the village, it can’t ruin the natural beauty of the village hidden in the leaves in it’s late autumn colors-- all fire hued, bright and unabashedly gorgeous.

It amuses him, actually, that horrible stone sculpture-- if you could even call it that. He himself had submitted a few concept sketches when Madara had told him of Hashirama’s ludicrous idea to put the Hokage’s face on the mountain. What is the point of capturing someone’s likeness in stone if it bares no resemblance to the subject? It’s not even a metaphorical piece--they just made Hashirama look stern and imposing, and completely ruined his jawline to boot.

Izuna shakes his head while he squints up at the stone monstrosity, absently infusing some chakra to stretch his senses-- he might not have the same range as Tobirama, or even Madara, but he’s got a talent for telling individuals apart and memorizing them. He’s curious as to who might be on guard duty at the tower today, but what he finds is--what he feels, is.

Warmth, like a bloom of fire in the center of your chest. Joy and rage effortlessly intertwined and held fast. Dark fire, heat and home and unmistakable--

_Madara is home._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say that I'm not blaming Tobirama for wanting to leave! He hasn't slept in like 24+ hours, hasn't bathed, it's loud, probably smells bad, and he didn't even want to go in the first place. Hashirama and Mito's hearts were in the right place, but that was just sensory hell. So! yes. Poor Tobert did need to get out, just not... to a bar...........


	5. who tells your story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madara comes home; Izuna questions where that is exactly.

No one is stationed at the desk outside of Hashirama’s office when Izuna arrives, but that’s understandable. Likely they saw Madara go in and decided that it was in their best interest to put as much distance between themselves and the Hokage’s official quarters as possible. It only took one hapless shinobi forgetting to knock while Madara was giving an “oral report” before the whole village got the idea.

That poor Hyuuga hasn’t been the same since Madara threw them out the window.

As it stands Izuna is only afraid of getting wrinkles and his own existential insignificance, so he throws the office doors open with the widest shit eating grin he can muster.

“Aniki, welcome home! I hope I’m not interrupting anything!” His tone says that he really hopes he is, though. He would have material to use against his brother for the next ten years if he caught him doing something like _that_.

Madara knocks several scrolls and a glass paperweight off of Hashirama’s desk as he scrambles down from it, eyes wide and dark and furious. His collar is askew, a few dark red marks that are most certainly _not_ from his mission clearly visible.

“ _Izuna!_ ” He sounds less than pleased to his see favorite (only) little brother, but that might have something to do with the fact that he’s desperately attempting to pull his collar back up.

Hashirama, mostly hidden from view by a combination of Madara’s fluffed up rage and his attempt to crawl under his own desk, groans.

“You’re really taking this whole ‘be more casual with me thing’ to heart, huh.”

Izuna laughs and doesn’t waste time dragging Madara into a tight hug, who only sulks a little into the embrace. It’s a a good sign that Izuna’s transgressions will be forgiven within the next five minutes--as per usual.

“Horrible,” mutters Madara against the top of Izuna’s head. “Absolutely the worst little brother. Did you know that?” Izuna doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s pouting--and the fact that Madara is doing this with Hashirama in earshot speaks volumes for their relationship.

“Oh? Would you rather trade Tobirama for me, then?” Izuna grins, being able to feel Madara physically recoil some from the suggestion alone. His brother scoffs, tucking Izuna’s head under his chin.

“I would rather go blind.”

“I resent that, you know. Tobirama is both an amazing and adorable little brother.” Hashirama must have come back out from under his desk, now that he knows Madara isn’t going to start throwing things at some poor intruder-- or start throwing people out of windows, as it were.

Madara does a half turn of his head to give Hashirama an incredulous look.“What have you been smoking since I’ve been gone?”

“And why haven’t you been sharing it?” Izuna lets Madara go to give Hashirama the smarmiest look possible. Madara snorts, shoving him a little to one side.

“You hush, he’s not sharing anything like that with you of all people-- Uchiha ‘I start stripping when I’m buzzed at parties’ Izuna.” Izuna sticks his tongue out at Madara. He got naked at _one_ bonfire and years later Madara still hasn’t let it go.

“I don’t need to get high to appreciate my little brother, what’s wrong with you two?” Hashirama sounds more like a harassed ten year old than the esteemed leader of their village, and looks it too with the way he’s slumped over his desk and peering up at them with a pouted, half hearted glare. “If all you’re going to do is make fun of my brother when he’s not here, you can both be dismissed. Don’t come back until you have a better attitude!”

Madara rolls his one visible eye, but reaches a hand down to affectionately pat Hashirama’s head, indulging him. “There, there. No one thinks Tobirama is… _That_ bad.” He hesitates slightly, casting Izuna an embarrassed glance before bending down and placing a chaste kiss on Hashirama’s forehead. “But I _was_ done with my report, and I do have other duties to attend to.”

It’s like watching the most disgusting real-time love story unfold in front of him, but Izuna can’t find it in himself to look away. Seeing Madara act so… _tender_ with someone outside of their immediate family is still absolutely fascinating to observe.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Hashirama’s dropped his sulking in order to sit up and put his hand on Madara’s cheek, not even remotely deterred by Izuna standing not five feet away and to the left.

“Yes--well--goodnight, Hashirama.”

Madara turns away abruptly, walking towards the door with such purpose one would think he’s on his way to end another war.

“Goodnight!”

Izuna nods to Hashirama before catching up with Madara, hands held behind his back innocently. “You _love_ him,” he sing-songs as the door shuts, eyes nearly shut with his glee. “You _looooove him_.”

Madara doesn’t look at him but Izuna knows he’s scowling, chin tucked low into his collar to hide the color on his face. “Shut _up,_ ” he says, swatting ineffectually in Izuna’s direction. “Why are you like this? Who raised you to be like this? Why do you hate your older brother so much?”

Izuna laughs himself breathless as they leave the tower. He’d missed this. He’d missed Madara.

He catches his breath halfway back to the Uchiha compound. Madara seems less than impressed with him for it.

“So,” Izuna wipes a few stray tears from his eyes before continuing. “You look fine for having just come back from an emergency S-rank.” Despite the blush and the hickies, you wouldn’t know Madara had been sent on a mission type that even their best shinobi occasionally don’t return from.

Madara hums and brushes a gloved hand over the front of his tunic, absently wiping away the last dust that marked him a traveler. The evening is still early and beautiful for it-- stars just beginning to peak out, the moon having risen while the sun began to set.

“It wasn’t much of one. Just a delivery, really. That idiot could have sent anyone on it.” Madara’s says this, but everything about him screams that he’s preening over having been chosen regardless.

“I’m surprised you accepted it,” Izuna teases, giving him a little shove as they fall better into step just to throw Madara out of rhythm. “Considering those usually mean you can’t blow anything up.”

Madara laughs; it’s a quiet laugh, just a hitch of his breath and the movement of his shoulders--self conscious, curated so that no one will notice. “What makes you think I wouldn’t find a way?”

Izuna shakes his head, free with his own laughter, not bothered by the attention it draws to him. “It is so, so good to have you home.”

Madara’s smile is nearly as warm as the summer sun. There is no reservation between the two of them.

They reach the compound with time to spare. The clan meet won’t begin until night has completely fallen. It’s easy enough to hurry Madara home, to read the notes Izuna painstakingly arranged aloud to him--both to allow him time to change and to spare his straining eyesight while the shadows grow deeper.

“Aunt Iko wants you to marry Kikue.” Izuna says while he fights a comb through Madara’s hair. It’s a losing battle, but he’s a veteran soldier and knows he can still gain back ground.

“Who?” Madara winces, bends a little further forward on his knees in either a futile attempt to escape the comb or an equally as futile move to help Izuna free it.

Izuna snorts--typical. “Kirihito’s sister. He was my flavor of the month during the summer a few years back.” Madara makes a sound like he remembers--but that could also just have been pain. “You have to give the clan credit, Aniki. They’re all really still banking on you breaking things off with Hashirama to have a ton of kids with someone you hardly know.”

“I’ll give them credit once they convince _you_ to settle down.” Madara’s grin lasts for about as long as it takes Izuna to bring the comb back up to his scalp.

“Which is to say… Never.” Izuna concludes, sighing when the poor comb finally gives up the ghost and breaks off into his brother’s hair. He’s left picking wooden fragments out Madara’s victorious hair, defeated.

He really ought to start buying metal combs.

The last of the light starts to fade from the sky as Madara and Izuna make their way to the meeting house. Madara pauses just outside, expression cast bright and a little ridiculous with flickering torch light reflected in his night-black eyes.

“Ready to be reprimanded for being unmarried and irresponsible?”

“Ready to be told that if our father were here, he’d be disappointed in us?”

Madara claps Izuna on the back. Izuna laughs.

They open the doors together.

 

* * *

 

Madara is an amazing leader, no matter what anyone else might say. Izuna will be the first to admit that, to defend it, but tonight it’s so evident that even the most staunch of Madara’s critics would be forced to concede.

He handles the Clan’s questions with ease--addressing concerns that he wasn’t privy to just an hour before with such care that would lead one to assume he had been considering it all week. He reassures them, makes promises where he can and compromises when he cannot. Tact is not always something that comes freely to Madara with outsiders, but his love for the clan shines through when he’s amongst family.

Izuna… is jealous. He can admit that much. It’s hard not to be jealous of Madara. Someone so powerful, so respected--feared, in some circles, and rightfully so-- so beloved of their people since his agreement to the treaty and the construction of the village.

It doesn’t help that Madara tonight is the product of Izuna’s hard work--of his last minute rainy morning diligence, his bitter writing-through-the-night, _his_ choices of what concerns were relevant, which arguments to settle, what problems needed solutions and what could be done?

It doesn’t help that the clan must know it’s his work, and yet he’s not asked a single question the whole evening. Not even a simple ‘When will you marry?’ Nothing.

It doesn’t help. It hammers home a bitter little nail in the pit of his stomach. He’s invisible when he’s seated next to Madara, no matter that he’s his brother’s right and left hands at any given time.

The Clan Meet goes spectacularly well, because of course it does. He prepared for it, and Madara gets all of the credit.

“That’s our clan head for you,” someone says as they all file out of the Meeting house. The person beside them nods sagely, arms crossed.

“What else would you expect from Madara-sama?”

Izuna grits his teeth and keeps a neutral if not pleasant face. He’s being childish. Petty. It’s natural they would commend Madara-- his brother deserves the recognition. The praise. He does, truly, it’s only that…

He just wishes it wasn’t _his_ praise that Madara was receiving, that’s all. He should be used to this sort of thing, but it still stings when it’s veritably thrown in his face.

“Well.” Izuna tenses when a hand lands on his shoulder, only relaxing slightly when he sees it’s Madara. “That certainly went better than I thought it would.” Madara puts his arm around Izuna’s shoulders, drawing him in close as they step out into the cold night air.

The moon is a knife sharp crescent, nearly new-- barely a point of light in the sky at all.

Izuna hums an agreement, not trusting himself to be appropriately pleasant. He catches a glimpse of Madara’s face and finds him so unbearably fond and perhaps a little shamefaced. It makes Izuna’s stomach twist in guilt. How can he be so petulant when Madara is so…. Madara? He opens his mouth to congratulate him--to apologize, even-- but Madara beats him to it.

“I know this must have been really hard on you,” Madara says, the hand on his shoulder rubbing his upper arm in a soothing up and down motion. “I’m sorry. I left you with so much to do-- you must have had to work so hard, little brother. It must have been so difficult, but you did so well on your own.”

That throws Izuna. He’d been expecting some sort of apology--Madara saying something like ‘ _I really stole your thunder, huh?’_ or perhaps maybe ‘ _I can’t believe they didn’t ask you a single question, don’t they know who organized tonight?’._ But _this_ ? He doesn’t know what to say to that--surely Madara doesn’t really think this has been _hard_ for him? How could he think that? How weak--how incompetent does he think Izuna is?

Something cold and hot at the same time forms in the center of his chest.

“I’m really proud of you, you know?”

The tight leash Izuna has so carefully kept around his frustration finally breaks. Anger, white hot and searing flashes through Izuna faster than he can react. He shoves Madara off of him, disgusted. There are two things Izuna hates most in this world--and he’s now been dragged through both of them.

“Don’t-- don’t _patronize_ me, Madara. Of course it went well-- _I_ prepared for it. And, I know this must be shocking to hear, but it wasn’t _fucking difficult_ because I’m not an idiot or a child. I’m used to picking up everyone’s messes, so, really, it was just another week! _Proud of me_ ,” he spits, snapping at long last.

“ _Proud of me_ \--for what?”

Izuna stands there in the thunderous silence after, sick and cold inside. He doesn’t dare look at Madara’s face-- he knows what he’ll find there waiting for him.

“Izuna… I’m--… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“Stop. Just. Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

The way Madara sucks in his breath is nearly enough to crush Izuna’s anger--like he’s been stabbed in an unexpected place, like the one who held the knife was someone he’d never dreamed would hurt him.

Izuna draws a breath that feels like molten lead cooling in his lungs. He does not look at Madara’s face-- he doesn’t need to. He knows what eyes are there, what twist of his brother’s mouth.

“I need to… I’m going to go. I need some time to think. Don’t wait up for me.” It might be overkill to flash step away, but Izuna knows that if he’d stayed a moment longer he wouldn’t have let himself stay angry at all. He would have relented in the face of Madara’s guilt, and where would that leave him? At home, stroking his older brother’s hand while he consoles Madara’s hurt and ignores his own.

He needs this--he needs to work through this. It’s not that tonight went poorly, or that this week in particular has been stressful. It’s everything--it’s _him_ . It’s his poor adjustment to the village, to his new place--or lack thereof--within it. It’s all the resentment and anger he’s bottled up and buried deep since the day Tobirama cut him open on the battlefield. Since the moment he looked up into Madara’s terrified eyes and knew he couldn’t leave his brother alone, that Madara would destroy himself or the world or _both_ without Izuna beside him, steadying him.

So of course it aches, physically hurts him to pain Madara like this--to not even be able to say ‘ _I’ll be home later’_ to put him at ease. He can’t lie to Madara like that. He can’t make a promise he doesn’t know if he can keep.

Izuna reaches the border of the village in record time, slipping past the shinobi on guard duty without a word.

He runs and he runs, and doesn’t look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting a new job on Monday, but I really want to finish this fic by the end of the week. I'm also planning on writing a HashiMada successor to this fic-- so if anyone has any prompts or ideas or just things they'd like to see, let me know!
> 
> And, uh, sorry about the cliffhanger? ┬┴┬┴┤ ͜ʖ ͡°) ├┬┴┬┴


	6. you are irreplaceable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Izuna makes a decision.

Izuna does not like crying.

Not on other people--it’s easy to be charming, but comfort requires a level of sincerity he is distinctly terrified of expressing--and certainly not on himself. Crying is vulnerable, open, powerful. Painful.

Izuna cried on the day his sharingan awakened--but that was forgivable, he thinks. Understandable. That pain was as emotional as it was physical, and he was young for it. ( _ Madara, stumbling on the battlefield. Madara wounded, hand coming away bloody from his shoulder. Madara turning pale as a death shroud, collapsing. ‘ _ **_Poisoned._ ** _ ’ says the field medic, Madara’s body not moving, too still, barely breathing. Izuna not sleeping that night, desperately holding onto Madara’s hand, fury and pain blurring his vision. He can see their face--the would-be-murderer--he will remember it for the rest of his life. Izuna resolves himself to a world without Madara. Izuna feels his world change with his grief--his eyes, his  _ **_eyes, oh god his EYES--_ ** )

Izuna cried briefly when their father died. Perhaps it was perfunctory, some sort of biological impulse, because neither Izuna nor Madara were much able to love the man with the way he raised them. (  _ ‘ _ **_Disgraceful_ ** _ ’ Their maternal aunts would say to one another, dabbing precious bruise healing ointment to Izuna’s cheek and rubbing lavender oil onto Madara’s temples to ease him out of post-genjutsu terror. ‘ _ **_Your mother would have never allowed for this._ ** _ ’ _ )

Izuna has not cried since. Izuna does not cry--he pushes such unpleasant things away. He paints, or draws, or drinks, or drags Madara (or recently, Tobirama) off to spar. Izuna takes walks and gossips about inconsequential things with his clansmen. Izuna does not cry because he cannot afford to be the emotional sibling. Izuna is the one who smiles and makes jokes and then everything is alright. (Madara does not cry in front of anyone but him, and when he does it is a rare thing. Madara’s heart is bigger and more kind than he lets on. Conversely, Izuna’s heart is smaller and harder than  _ he _ lets on.)

In the moment now Izuna focuses on his breathing, in and out. Not on the hot-cold dampness on his face, not on the burning in his eyes. Just in and out, in and out. Breathing.

Easy.

He isn’t crying. At the height he’s at, it’s simply that… The wind, it’s blurring his vision, making his eyes water. That’s all. Simple-- biological response to an outside force.

He isn’t crying.

Izuna leans against the bark of the nauseatingly tall tree he climbed and stretches his senses, feeling for pursuers or simply others returning back… home. To their home, he supposes. But no, the village is far enough away that everyone’s chakra (even Hashirama’s, even Madara’s) has become one fuzzy blur of heat and light and indistinct texture. He’s gone far enough for now.

Izuna slumps against the tree’s trunk and smothers a wordless groan into his hands. He is so, so very tired.

Breathing, he decides, is much easier to focus on.

He’s so tired of feeling invisible, but it’s not as if he didn’t do this to himself. It’s not as if he didn’t purposefully choose his skill sets to compliment Madara’s. (Loud, Powerful, Impatient, Indomitable Madara. Bright as a sun flare, destructive as a wild fire. Counterpart: Sly, Underhanded, Scheming, Clever Izuna. Fleeting as a moonbeam, deadly as a snake in the grass.)

He made himself into what he had to, to fill in the gaps of Madara’s defenses. Izuna doesn’t want to regret that--he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

Izuna breathes, smoothing out the hitches, taking care it doesn’t catch. His face is cold, bitterly so when the wind starts to blow.

It was fine before the village, when protecting Madara’s back (as his brother, as his clan head, as his only immediate family left) was enough of a purpose to please the clan. When his duty was simple and defined. When he knew that when he died, he would be dying to justify his purpose and that he would be  _ remembered _ and  _ honored _ for it.

( _ What would his death mean now? Who will remember Izuna as more than Uchiha Madara’s younger brother? Who will remember Izuna as more than some faceless shinobi from the hidden leaf? _ )

The village stole that comfort from him. The village has made everything murky-- where does duty to your clan end, and duty to the village begin? How is he supposed to want to put a village he never wanted before his clan that he has known his entire life?

How could Madara expect that of him? How could  _ anyone _ ?

Izuna is  _ so tired _ of this. Sick of teetering between blind anger and wandering like a lost child with his hands out, begging for scraps of purpose. Sick of feeling like he’s gone from one shadow to another when everyone else has stepped into a spot light.

Madara co-founded a village and ushered in an era of peace for their clan. Tobirama nearly single handedly created the shinobi academy’s entire curriculum, created several jutsu so powerful they’re now listed as forbidden…. Hashirama has reached near immortal status as the first Hokage. And what has Izuna done since then?

What has  _ Izuna _ done? Nothing important--nothing worth remembering. He is going to die in obscurity, forgotten and without achievement--and honestly, in all honesty, that should not bother him. Not the way it does. He’s serving his clan and village the best way he knows how and he shouldn't want any credit for that much but he  _ does _ , he craves recognition so desperately. Something--anything--to validate that he is  _ here _ that he is  _ trying _ , at least…

And maybe, even, one day for Hashirama himself to look at him and say  _ 'We couldn't have done this without you, Izuna-kun’,  _ for Tobirama to nod and agree, to say his presence was vital-- for Madara to look at  _ him _ with awe, to say that he wouldn't expect any less of him, that their clan will be so proud.

But none of that will happen, because Izuna has no ambition of his own--and that's really just his own fault. You can't blame bonfires for casting more shadows than a candle. You can’t blame thunderstorms for being more memorable than static.

He draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face there.

Izuna can’t focus on his breathing. The forest is dark around him, swallowing up his indignity, hiding him in his lowest moment of shame, at his most vulnerable and pathetic.

The wind blows, the trees whisper around him. The world goes on despite him, in spite of him.

Distantly, Izuna can feel a singular chakra approaching. All dark blue light and mountain stream cold feel, snow underfoot and slowly building roar of an ocean--Tobirama, without a doubt. Amusing, but unsurprising all things considered.

Izuna can see it now: Hashirama checking in on Madara sulking in their dark home and Hashirama going to Tobirama, hoping that his little brother will be able to bring Izuna home to cheer Madara up.

_ Well, _ thinks Izuna as he stands and brushes himself clean.  _ Since he’s come all this way, I might as well greet him. _

Izuna walks to the end of the branch he’d perched on and jumps.

There is a brief moment when he wonders what would happen if he  _ didn’t _ cushion his fall, but quickly dismisses it. Broken legs won’t really change his problems in the long run.

Tobirama doesn’t so much as flinch when Izuna suddenly lands before him, the lantern he’d brought with him casting shadows across his face--mouth drawn tight, eyebrows furrowed just so, a certain squint to his eyes--throwing his discomfort into into relief. Izuna stares him down, silently daring the other man to say something about his damp face and no doubt swollen, red rimmed eyes.

Tobirama looks quickly away from his face, turning his gaze to a clump of half illuminated ferns instead.

There is silence for a long, tense moment, and then:

“Do… you want to talk about… all of this?”

The sheer ridiculousness of the situations finally catches up to Izuna, a manic, overpowering laughter bubbling up in his throat and spilling out of him, pouring out between the hands Izuna brought up to his mouth to hold it in. Tobirama--of all people--

_ Of all people _ . Like this? Profoundly hilarious. Utterly absurd. Izuna can’t help himself-- and the more he laughs, the worse of an expression Tobirama makes. The man’s gone from uncomfortable to offended, maybe even started to turn red--but the lantern isn’t so bright as to show that much, and maybe that’s for the best.

“I’m sorry, is something about this situation  _ humorous _ to you?” Tobirama bites out, which sends Izuna--who had almost nearly caught his breath--spiraling back out of control, bent over double laughing.

“This is too much--simply, just--  _ you _ ,  _ here _ , and your  _ face _ and oh, gods, I’m going to throw up.”

Tobirama takes a half-step backwards and Izuna laughs a while longer before being able to gather enough composure to stand up straight and look at Tobirama without losing it again.

“Listen--ahh, I’m sorry. Very sorry, really. I’ve been having… a night, you know?” Izuna says with a sigh. He rubs his hand over his face and then back through his hair, and Tobirama nods, although Izuna doubts he actually knows what kind of evening Izuna has been having exactly. Tobirama sets the lantern down and settles cross legged on the forest floor, and Izuna seeing no reason to be contrary follows suit.

Tobirama shifts and puts his hands in his lap, his eyes only briefly flicking up to Izuna’s face and then sliding away. “This doesn’t seem to be a spur of the moment choice,” he says to the patch of moss on the boulder to Izuna’s left. “You rarely make rash decisions--actually rash ones. Most of your poor decisions are carefully planned out.”

Izuna snorts but doesn’t argue, shrugging one shoulder half heartedly. “What, can’t a guy just want to reconnect with nature now and then?”

The look Tobirama levels him with is so finished with his nonsense that it draws another, albeit weaker, laugh out of Izuna.

“Alright, alright. No. But I know that  _ you _ know why I’m out here, or else  _ you _ wouldn’t be out here too.”

It’s Tobirama’s turn to shrug. He picks a fern and with a distracted sort of precision starts pulling the fronds off one by one. “I know you had a fight with your brother, but I don’t know why that made you come all the way out here. You’ve fought before, but this wasn’t the result. Therefore, something else caused you, and me, to be here tonight.”

Izuna hates when Tobirama is right--although, he can’t deny that it  _ is _ a little flattering that he’s paid such close attention. He knows that it’s mostly practical for Tobirama to know these things--but a little part of him maybe  _ hopes _ …

But who is he kidding, really?

“It’s sort of… Stupid, actually. It will definitely sound pathetic if I say it out loud.” Izuna draws his hair over his shoulder, threads his fingers through it. Tobirama says nothing, but he  _ does _ quirk an eyebrow at Izuna. Right. This is the brother of Senju I-cried-one-time-in-a-clan-meeting-because-everyone-got-along-for-ten-minutes Hashirama. It’s doubtful that anything Izuna has to say will top his brother’s dramatics.

Izuna takes a deep breath.

“I’m…. Unimportant. The rest of you-- My brother, you, your brother… You’re all important. You’re all going to be remembered. In a hundred years, school children will be reading history books written about you, and I… I’ll be a footnote.”

Izuna waves a hand and affects a pedantic tone, perhaps unintentionally mimicking one of his teachers in years past.

“ ‘Ah, yes, Uchiha Izuna, Uchiha Madara’s younger brother by four years and eight months. He was there too.’ That sort of thing--and I  _ hate _ it-- I hate it, but it’s my own fault, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. I made myself this miserable bed, and now I’ve got to lie in it.”

Tobirama doesn’t say anything at first, but he does lean forward--fern forgotten--and places his hand with great attention and deliberation on Izuna’s shoulder. Izuna, with a far off and vague amusement, recognizes the gesture as a poor mimic of something Hashirama does often. It’s… adorable, Tobirama trying so hard to be comforting. Adorable and  _ touching _ \--he doesn’t need to do any of this, there’s no tactical, practical advantage. Not really, so why…?

Tobirama draws himself up and speaks carefully, choosing his words with the care of someone carefully fitting together broken pieces of porcelain.

“Perhaps you haven’t done something worth writing into a history book yet, but that doesn't mean your actions don't matter. Every single day, you work your hardest to better your village and your clan. With everything you do, you irrevocably change their future. All of your actions and in-actions, they add up.”

His hand tightens on Izuna’s shoulder, expression settling into something more stern--no-- certain, like he knows something Izuna doesn’t, like he can see what lies ahead of them with unshakable clarity. It’s breathtaking (it’s enviable), how sure he is. Izuna was only ever sure of anything  _ before _ this village--and now… Well. Here they are. Tobirama continues, his eyes on Izuna’s face, focused in a way that suggests he is forcing himself to.

“Your work now may seem insignificant, but with every clan history you document and archive, with every bit of paperwork and preparation, you are making the lives of the next generation easier. All of your actions Izuna, however small they feel, will echo further than you or I can ever know.”

There is wind in the trees, movement in the bushes around them of the nocturnal forest life. There is silence between them, broken up and taken apart by the background sound of every day life.

Izuna breathes.

He isn’t crying. Something--a pine needle, a piece of leaf--must have fallen into his eye.

Tobirama moves his hand to curl lightly around Izuna’s bicep, a more natural, less rehearsed action.

“More importantly,” His voice is low and quiet, almost soft. “You are… Irreplaceable. You should remember that.”

Izuna feels warmth bloom around his heart, opens his mouth to say something-- to thank him, maybe, to--

“And also without you around,  _ Hashirama _ would be Madara’s sole keeper and gods only know how  _ that _ would turn out.” Tobirama’s face says that although he might not be a god, he has a pretty clear idea of how that would go. All in all it looks a bit like someone’s shoved a ball of lemon rinds into his mouth.

Izuna lets out a startled little laugh--and he tempts fate by putting his hand over Tobirama’s, then decides to push it a little more and gives his hand a light squeeze. What is he doing? He can’t stop smiling. Oh no.

“Right, then. Let’s not let them get up to anything more for tonight.”

Tobirama nods, pulling away but offering a hand up to Izuna.

“Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Thank you so much for being so patient with me, I'm so sorry this took so long to put out!
> 
> As you can see, I... uh... misjudged how many chapters I needed to end this. Again. So now Eyes on You will have SEVEN chapters, and I swear to god I won't take three months (hopefully) to write the last one.
> 
> Thank you as always for reading!!
> 
> \--Bee


	7. to be the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izuna goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my good friend Sage (gayizuna.tumblr.com) ! They went through a really rough time recently, so a bunch of their friends (including me) gathered together to put out some good good Izuna content under the hastag #GayerIzuna on tumblr, and this is my contribution!
> 
> We all love you Sage!

Izuna's face aches from smiling by the time he and Tobirama reach the entrance to the Uchiha compound. This is definitely a problem that he's going to have to examine--but that is for later, when he's lying in bed and making himself regret all of his more foolish life choices. Right now, he's still focusing on the way Tobirama has been letting him brush up against his side while they walk, whispers of touch, a hair's breadth away from intimacy. So any actual self reflection will have to wait in lieu of this startling and wonderful new development.

They both pause at the boundary line, and how funny it all seems now. An Uchiha on one side of an invisible border, a Senju on the other, parting ways for the night under the dusky light of the lamp post as friends. An incredible difference from just a decade or so ( _a lifetime, forever_ ) ago, staring each other down across a river and fully expecting to die in the water on the other's blade.

Izuna's eyes find Tobirama's while they part at this not-so-great divide for the barest of moments ( _a breath, a heartbeat_ ) and it steals away the smart little quip Izuna had perched on his tongue. Tobirama is quick to let his gaze rest elsewhere, but Izuna finds himself transfixed for a beat or two longer, his pulse quickening, his mouth going the slightest bit dry.

"Good night," Tobirama says quietly. "I... hope to see you tomorrow, at the archives."

It's all Izuna can do to nod and do his best not to look as suddenly stricken as he feels. "Yeah," He breathes, and prays that like with most minute social cues this one goes right over Tobirama's head.

"Yeah, I'll see you there. Tomorrow. Like always."

Smooth, Izuna. Incredibly convincingly calm and suave. He suppresses the bone deep urge to drag his hands down his face in aggravation. Way to really convey your true feelings, there.

For his part, all Tobirama does is give one final nod of his head before turning and making his way back to the Senju compound on the opposite side of the village. Izuna watches the still glowing lantern bob along with Tobirama's steps until he takes a corner and passes out of sight.

The night is quiet and dark now, most everyone having holed themselves away in the warmth of their homes at this time of night. The air is cold but not painful, summer finally having begun to give way to fall. Izuna takes a deep breath and feels the chilled air settle in his lungs, imparting him with just a touch of the stillness that hangs around him like a gentle curtain.

Izuna scrubs a hand down his face and sighs. There's no avoiding going home any longer now.

His feet at least start on the familiar path home with none of the trepidation that's settled onto his heart. It's not that Izuna dreads seeing his brother, or fears that Madara will be anything less than entirely understanding about this whole ordeal-- it's just that... He feels a bit foolish now, like he's gone and pitched a fit ( _lashed out at Madara, caused him no small amount of heartache and guilt, made him no doubt sick with worry_ ) only to come home like a child who'd threatened to run away and returned once the night grew cold and dark around him.

But his discomfort isn't the focus at the moment. Izuna comes to a stop before his and Madara's home, a single light burning within the front room where Madara is undoubtedly ( _anxiously, heart sick with guilt_ ) waiting for Izuna to return home.

He takes another, deeper breath and steels himself before sliding their front door open as quietly as possible.

"I'm home," Izuna says to the entryway.

"Welcome back." Says Madara from the front room, the relief in his voice tempered only by the remnants of guilt and anxiety from their earlier confrontation. There's the sound of him bringing himself to his feet--cloth rustling against a cushion, bare feet touching down onto hardwood--but Izuna keeps his attention on removing his sandals and stepping into the house proper.

Izuna runs a hand through his ponytail as he takes in the front room, the quiet austere nature of its sparse decorations, the butter yellow light from the gas lighting on the wall, the low table with a cold pot of tea and an interestingly patterned tea cup, the cushion that Madara had been seated on while he waited...

When Izuna gets up the courage to look at Madara, the first thing he notices is that he's been crying, his eyes swollen and rimmed in red. Madara opens his mouth ( _to apologize, to beg Izuna to stay, or perhaps something even more unbearable for Izuna to hear_ ) but Izuna raises a hand to stop him, his heart heavy but growing fierce with his love for his only living brother.

It only takes two steps to wrap Madara up in his arms, to gently place his hand over the exposed nape of his neck with a protective hand.

"I'm sorry, Madara. I'm sorry-- you didn't do anything to deserve any of that. I wasn't really angry with you, you know?" Izuna says with his cheek pressed against Madara's thankfully kimono clad shoulder. Madara nods his understanding and crushes Izuna against himself as hard as he dares.

Izuna chuckles around a wheeze. "I've just been thinking a lot, but I think I've figured it all out now. I'm alright."

"I'm so sorry," Madara's muffled voice says. "I should have been more diligent, or more present for you. Whatever it was, you felt like you couldn't come to me about it, and I..."

Madara trails off with a sigh, arms going a bit limp. "I failed as your older brother."

" _No_." Izuna drags Madara back in closer despite his attempts to break the embrace out of his usual flavor of misplaced guilt and martyrdom. "Don't be ridiculous, you could never fail at something like that. And anyway... This was something I had to work out on my own, and I'm alright now. So let's--"

The sight of Madara's teary eyes in his peripheral vision is enough to stop Izuna in his tracks. "Oh _Aniki_ ," He murmurs, planting a kiss onto the eternal mess of Madara's hair. "It's alright now. I'm sorry, I'm alright-- I'm here."

They stay like that for what feels like a small eternity, holding tightly onto one another like children, like the night after the river incident, like the night Madara became clan head. The standing clock pushed up against the far right corner ticks softly in the background, the gas lights hum, Izuna and Madara beginning to breathe in time.

Eventually Izuna pulls away just enough to look his elder brother in the eye before turning both of their attention to the tea cup painted with a mural of uncomfortably large garish pink slugs and hot orange lilies with poorly shaped desaturated green leaves patterning the border.

"The more important matter is where _that_ came from," He points an accusing finger at it, lip curled in distaste. "It's _hideous_ , Madara."

Madara scoops the cup up defensively, clutching the monstrosity of ceramics close to his heart while shooting Izuna a dirty look withering enough to kill anything less hardy than the average house plant. "It's... It's not _that_ ugly," Madara says hotly. "It's charming. And how do you know we haven't had this all along, hm? Are you that familiar with all of our cups now?"

"I think I would remember something _that_ ugly." Izuna grins when Madara sputters. They both know _exactly_ where the cup came from.

Only one man could make his older brother so endeared to such a truly horrifying insult to tea cups, after all.

"Oh--shut up, will you? Go to bed and leave me be." Madara shoves Izuna toward the hall, and he takes the direction with a poorly concealed laugh.

"A tea cup is a poor substitution for--"

"Good _night_ , little brother."

Izuna briefly pauses at his door, amused but fond when he looks back at Madara. "I love you, you know."

Madara’s harassed expression softens for a moment before he shoos him off again. "And I you, now go to bed."

Izuna slides the door shut with another laugh at Madara's expense. It's easy enough to ready himself for bed after that-- washing his face at his water basin, dressing down into his _nagajuban_ and settling into his futon with a well earned sigh.

As his mind wanders while he winds down to sleep, he inevitably circles back to the forest floor and Tobirama's hand on his shoulder, his sincerity and certainty resonating deep within the core of him.

In the end, he supposes he doesn't need to shine very brightly in order to pave the way for the children of the village, and if that's the case, he might be fine reflecting everyone else's light.

Perhaps the moon isn't such a lowly position to be in, after all.

 _Although_ , a private little part of Izuna demures, sly as a fox eyeing koi in a pond. Being remembered as Senju Tobirama's partner has bit of a better ring to it than Uchiha Madara's younger brother, he thinks. And plans, and dreams.

 

.

.

.

.

.

 

_Some weeks later, at the Hokage tower._

 

"So," Madara slams a pile of paperwork onto Hashirama's already overwhelmed desk. The poor thing gives an ominous creak in response that Madara promptly ignores. "What exactly are your brother's feelings for mine? If he breaks Izuna's heart, I'll gut him like a fish. See if I don't."

Hashirama blinks slowly up at Madara, needing a moment or two to process all of... that. He eventually settles on becoming a bit disconcerted at the unfortunately vivid imagery Madara's threat brings to mind ( _Tobirama, dressed up as a fish with brightly colored paper mache guts spilling out from a fold in his kimono-fish-suit_ ) but otherwise appears decently nonplussed.

"You won't," He says with a sigh, leaning back in his chair and staring out at the bright autumn foliage. It makes for a much more pleasant backdrop for his thoughts compared to Tobirama the fish being theatrically gutted by Madara in full kabuki get up. Konoha's forest in full fall plumage is certainly a bit easier on the eyes than all that.

Madara makes an aggravated little sound at being so easily dismissed and brings his other gloved hand down onto Hashirama's abused desk for emphasis, almost audibly saying 'don't you ignore me, how dare you!'  with that gesture alone.

"Don't be so sure, Hashirama. I do not make idle threats when it comes to my--"

"No, no-- _please_ , Madara. I know you would do a lot worse than gut and debone someone if anything happened to Izuna-kun." Hashirama waves a hand dismissively, leaving Madara both somewhat mollified and vaguely perturbed at being cut off. "You misunderstand. You won't need to gut him because there's no way he'll break Izuna's heart." There's an easy sureness to Hashirama's voice that has Madara raising a skeptical eyebrow, leaning forward toward him just so.

"And why, pray tell, is that?"

The sun peeks out from behind the clouds. A pair of finches chase each other between two of the new apartment complexes. Hashirama grins and rests his chin in his palm, looking up at Madara with no small amount of smug amusement.

"Well, he can’t if he's in love with Izuna too, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys all so much for reading Eyes on You & enduring my horrible inability to update regularly. You're all wonderful, and I hope to see you all again soon-- because I plan on writing a sequel to this fic "Love Runs like a River (it will carry me to you)" ! It will be from Tobirama's POV, and more or less explore him trying to figure out Izuna and their newly budding relationship with shenanigans along the way. :3c
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for coming with me on this journey. It's been tons of fun!
> 
> \--Bee

**Author's Note:**

> Visit reparationau.tumblr.com for more relevant headcanons and art works!


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